


Making Merry

by Jalules



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Ancestors, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Red Romance, pre-Signless revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He needs to slink into the night sooner or later. "</p><p>In which the Signless and Grand Highblood meet, sweeps before a revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Merry

**Author's Note:**

> Formatting is being a bit tricky today for some reason. I'll fix it up later if it becomes a problem.

.  
.  
.  
He’s eight sweeps old, the Signless.

  
Old enough to be fending for himself, to join society and do his duty, but here he is still clinging to the skirts of the one who raised him.

  
He’s hiding, always hiding. It’s a wonder he ever made it out of the caverns, the way she keeps him safe under wraps, the way he cloaks himself in paranoia. She has reason to hide him though, and he has reason to worry.  
But he’s getting to the age where it’s unavoidable. He’s got a job to do, he knows that know. He has visions, has a purpose. He has a place in this world, a role to fill, and hiding in caves and trees and sympathetic hives won’t get him any further in life.  
He needs to slink into the night sooner or later.  
Preferably sooner. Preferably when she’s not watching. Preferably on a night when the third Dark Season Festival is in full swing.  
Vision and purpose aside, he is eight sweeps old and interested in seeing a real, live party.

  
While his guardian dozes, napping in the deep, midnight quiet of their current forest hideaway after a trying evening skirting official check points, he seeks out the edge of the nearest stream and studies his reflection.  
He runs a hand through his hair, musses it into what he imagines may pass for semi-attractive, and turns away before he can convince himself otherwise.  
When they go out together, the few occasions she has deemed an area safe enough for wandering, he wears layers of bland, forgettable clothing, a heavy hood. He lets her smudge clever makeup under his eyes to dull their color. The casual passerby sees an acceptable shade of maroon, not the flame-bright red that’s creeping into his irises, choking out the smoky grey of his adolescent eyes.  
He smears some makeup there now himself, to be safe, to appease her even as she sleeps.

  
He thinks, from time to time, that as much as she’s trying to keep his secret, perhaps she just wishes for him to stay small.  
She’s afraid to lose him, he knows.  
She’d be afraid now, if she saw him. Angry, too. The last time he shed his hood in public, riled up as he argued with some local law enforcement about abuses of power and the possibilities of peace, her head nearly exploded from fury and concern.  
Who knew shouting in front of the stocks was a crime punishable by being put in the stocks?  
She rescued him before things got that far, same as she always does. Slipping in, dropping a few polite phrases, some diplomatic bows. And, should that fail, threatening to tear open a throat or two.  
After the last few close calls, she’s made him promise to be careful, to stop going around looking for trouble.

  
But he never looks for trouble, just sort of happens to find it. He’s trying to help, or just speaking his mind, when suddenly things get out of hand, get dangerous.  
But this isn’t dangerous, it’s just a festival. It’s a little risky, perhaps, to go out on his own, but he’s confident.  
He only feels a little guilty, a little nervous, leaving his caretaker for the night.

 

Out through the woods, over a small hill, he can see the lights of the nearest village, the torches they’ve set out for the festival.  
He follows their warm, golden glow, double checks the small sickle tucked into his belt.  
He’s sheltered, not stupid. Joyous moods or no, only a fool would wander into an Alternian settlement unarmed.  
He hopes not to have to use it, hating the sight of blood and, even more, the sight of a creature in pain. He’s weak in that respect, by troll standards, but whenever the thought weighs too heavy on him and he begins to doubt, he turns inward, meditates till his visions reassure him that there is a world of peace, a way besides widespread culling.

  
He has a message to spread, if he could only figure out how to tell it.  
He quashes that thought for the moment though, drawing close to the sound of music and laughter.  
A festival is no place for that kind of talk. Not when it’s a festival of strangers, at least. He knows better than to stride in and start speaking nonsense. He knows better than to speak at all, really. He’s mostly here to observe.

  
A cursory glance around the fairground gives him plenty of information already, the way things work here, how he’ll be expected to behave. The groupings of trolls, divided by age more than blood, suggest a casual atmosphere, a night of carefree celebration with friends and neighbors.  
Leaning over rough, wooden tables, masses of gruff looking old trolls play cards. Against the outer wall of a tavern, the hub of the night’s entertainment, a tawny-blooded young troll laughs into the hair of his teal companion, a willowy aristocrat who’s shed her jewels for the evening to embrace a lover with no cool metals in the way.  
Tiny near-wrigglers scurry between cliques, race past the Signless and don’t stop to look at him, barely stop to breathe as they chase each other here and there, ignoring the cries of older festival goers to go play somewhere else.  
He stares at their symbols and swatches as they run by, the shades of green, of yellow, of deep, dark blue.

  
He feels immediately giddy, light without societal convention weighing on his mind. This is what he wants to see, what he wants the world to be. He skirts the edges of the crowds and grins with every mismatched pair of colors he sees. It’s a glorious mess, this festival, a whole village with its guard down, with fear out of mind, and it’s all he can do to keep from diving right in.  
He buys a drink without arousing suspicion, walks the perimeter, mug in hand. It’s a slightly hazy evening, but comfortable enough without his hood on.  
He smiles to himself for that alone, for the warm breeze that ruffles his hair, and strolls past pop-up vendors and groups of laughing, drunken youth with ease.

  
He feels right, in his element. He feels like one of his visions come to life, and if he shuts his eyes for just a moment he might as well be in the middle of one, the way the scents, the sounds feed into the memories (premonitions?) that linger just on the edge of his consciousness.  
But he barely dares to blink, too busy taking in every lick of torch flame, every swirling skirt caught in a dance.  
He’s dazzled by it all, has to step back as he wanders into a cloud of smoke and sweat and finds it hard to breathe. He searches out the far edges of the festival grounds, extricates himself from the crowd and backs up to a shady spot under the trees to look on from afar.

  
He’s not the only one taking a moment to themselves though, and, distracted by the goings on, he very nearly stumbles over the boots of another troll.  
A much larger, indigo-clad troll. Several sweeps older than himself, with intimidating horns and the kind of claws that do damage.  
Ink-colored eyes follow a lazy path from a half empty mug propped in a lap, up, up to where the Signless stands.  
For a moment, fear grips him. He hunches his shoulders to hide, a force of habit, and begins muttering a quick apology before he remembers where he is, what he can do. Surely this troll is in good spirits, just the same as the rest of them.  
He stands up straighter, says a proper apology, and shakes his head when the troll in question says one in return, insisting it’s his fault for leaving his legs all out where anyone can trip over them.  
They go back and forth for a moment, each trying to take the blame, till finally the other troll belts out a laugh, ending the back and forth abruptly. He pats the ground beside him with a large, partially gloved hand, an invitation to join him.

  
He has a comfortable place to himself here, sitting on soft moss and surrounded by flickering candles. The Signless sees no reason for him to be sitting alone, unless he chose to be, or unless the other festival goers are afraid of him. Subbjuglators, which he suspects is exactly what the troll is, are a frightening sort.  
He’s got such a cheery expression though, a friendly face beneath a thin pattern of scars and smudges of makeup, that he can’t quite find it in himself to believe this is a solitary fellow, nor someone to be afraid of.  
The club at his side says otherwise, but again he reminds himself, only a fool wouldn’t carry a weapon here.

  
With a shrug, he takes the offered spot in the grass, sitting down beside the hulking troll and feeling smaller than usual.  
He gets a better look at the blue-violet of his eyes, feels a twinge in his chest, a pressure behind his eyes that he’s learned signals a vision, a memory.  
Though he’s sure the candlelight is showing some of the color in his own eyes, will automatically place him so much lower than the troll at his side, they take up casual conversation as though there’s no difference between them. It’s fantastic.

  
The highblood says that he hasn’t seen him around here before, subtly seeking a name, a story.  
The Signless has no name to give, no stories safe to share, so he laughs hollowly and makes up an excuse, plays the weary traveler routine and swears he’s no one in particular. It’s basically true.

  
That suits the highblood fine, and he, who has much more interesting stories to tell, is happy to fill the air with rude jokes and the odd philosophical consideration. He starts and stops three different tales of brutal killings, seeing the Singless’ unease with the subject, and slaps him roughly on the back, laughs it off as though he doesn’t mind at all.  
He tells tales of adventure instead, of trading limericks with the leaders of distant planets, leaving out the parts where he beheads them. The Signless takes in each story, excited to learn more, to vicariously experience something different, even if it isn’t something he quite agrees with.

  
They have almost nothing in common, and in any other situation they would never have the opportunity or inclination to sit so close, to talk for so long. But here, things are different, and the longer the Signless sits laughing into his mug at the highblood’s tasteless, vaguely offensive commentary, the more he thinks this meeting was meant to happen.  
The tone of the troll’s voice, the flash of his fangs, is familiar. In some deep, distant way, the Signless is sure that he knows him. Not well, not like the troll who raised him, who he knows has mothered him before and always will. More like an acquaintance, met by chance one night and never seen again. Not unlike their meeting now.  
As the light of the torches lining the fields die down, as the very young and the very old wander back to their hives, the Signless and the highblood stay sitting together. When they finish their drinks, the highblood calls for another round. Apparently, unsurprisingly, he has that kind of power.  
The Signless resists the urge to question it.

  
A pretty girl with gently curved horns and green makeup around her eyes brings them each another mug, snorts dismissively when the highblood raises his eyebrows suggestively.  
Cold shoulder aside, she looks as though she might linger for a moment, till a copper-flushed minstrel catches up to her, steals her attention and leads her away, pulling laughter from her tight lipped smile with nonsensical rhymes and a sway of the hips.  
The Signless watches them go, admiring the way they join hands and lean against one another for more than just stability in a night of drunken stumbling.

  
They’re cute, he muses, almost too soft to hear, but the highblood catches the phrase and barks a laugh.  
When the Signless goes hot in the face, puffs his chest a little in annoyance, the highblood just laughs at him again.  
He means no harm, he says, just thought it was a funny choice of words. On the whole, he finds the Signless to be a pretty funny guy.

  
The Signless frowns, considering.  
Though he’s told no jokes of his own, it’s true that he’s had the highblood in stitches. He suspects it has more to do with a combination of drink and his own occasional awkward fumbling, but still, the troll seems amused by his reactions, by any hint he gives to his ideological leanings.  
He’s almost certainly mocking him, but that’s still preferable to being shunned, to some of the violence he’s seen in response to his message. Not that he’s openly shared it with many. Yet. He’s just not quite ready for that.

  
Though, looking up at the highblood’s grinning mouth, his smiling eyes, he wonders if he’s found an audience.  
Maybe not a reverent crowd, no eager disciple, but a troll who will listen.  
As if sensing his thoughts, maybe seeing them on his face (he’s heard he wears his heart on his sleeve, knows he has to work on that,) the highblood sighs, ends a loop of laughter with a lazy smile and says that he’s done enough talking for one night. He’d like to hear what his companion has to say.

  
So the Signless speaks.  
Slowly at first, halting and unsure. He doesn’t want to preach, just to share. He tells the highblood what he thinks, what he believes, and when he’s met with no resistance, he ramps up, keeps talking. He mentions his visions, briefly, nervously, but still the other troll seems unperturbed by what others have said was a sign of insanity.  
The highblood smiles when he stutters in excitement, when he talks with his hands and nearly knocks his drink sideways. He smiles wider when the Signless stops gesticulating, offers a hand instead, palm up, and says he wants to try something.

  
If the highblood wouldn’t mind, he’d like to touch him. Just a little. He thinks it could jar a memory, spark something.  
The highblood raises his eyebrows in the same suggestive fashion he did at the serving girl, grins ear to ear when the Signless flusters. He offers his hand though, and doesn’t flinch when it’s snatched.  
The Signless takes a deep breath, centers himself, forgets the heat in his cheeks. He takes the highblood’s hand and turns it palm up, studies the lines in his skin, callouses and light scars obscuring the natural paths.

  
Familiar, all vaguely familiar. Like a painting glimpsed once, like a story told second-hand, the highblood’s hand is an imprint in his mind, each curving claw a distant memory of another highblood, another time.  
He closes his eyes, (stupid, so dangerously stupid and he should be home by now, his guardian could be awake and worrying by now,) and searches himself.  
He feels the other world in a rush, a surge that rises from his navel, settles round his midsection like a belt, forces his air sacks to expand, makes him gasp. It reaches his head moments too late, leaves him dizzy from sensation.  
He feels…

  
He feels disconnect, despair. He feels fear and pain and a choking, clawing need. He feels pity, real, honest pity that makes his bloodpusher pound.

  
He opens his eyes suddenly, shivers head to toe when the highblood is touching him again, all too suddenly, brushing scarred and stained fingers against his cheek in a shockingly gentle motion.  
He’s caught in the past or the present or somewhere else, not himself, and the touch of claws drags a yelp from his throat, then a sigh as the tension leaves him. He closes his eyes, focuses, tries to make himself see, but these things can’t be forced.  
The highblood leans in close and nuzzles him, makes his bloodpusher jump in an unnatural fashion from how cool, how soft the touch is. He’s on the verge of a vision that must be relevant somehow, somehow, because this troll has caught his attention and snared him so completely and he doesn’t even know his name.

  
He doesn’t protest as the highblood tilts his head, catches his lips. No vision comes and he’s left staring at the insides of his eyelids, feeling far too much and understanding nothing.  
It’s not his first kiss, but the first from someone older, someone desirable by Alternian terms, someone he can tell wants him. He returns it with an enthusiasm that isn’t entirely his own, fueled by vague rememberings, by intense hope. He tastes wine, feels fangs, knows when he should stop.

  
The contact drags a moment or two past that point, till he gets a hold of himself, pulls away and feels slightly undone.

  
The highblood asks, speaking low and laughing softly, if he’s alright.  
He isn’t sure how to answer.

  
Eventually he nods, pulls his hand away and apologizes, says he’s sorry for being so strange. He clears his throat and says that he should probably be leaving.  
The highblood makes no move to stop him as he stands up, brushes himself off, steps back.  
He wishes the other troll well, thanks him for the conversation and company. It’s been an interesting evening and he’s largely to thank for that.  
He offers a hand to shake, receives only a sly, cruel smile.

  
It has been a pleasure, the highblood agrees, looking up, just barely, from his place on the ground. He gives the Signless credit for his unique view of the universe.  
Though, he adds, a fair warning; if he sees him again, outside of this festival, hears a word of his peace and harmony message, he’ll be forced to bash his fucking head in.  
The highblood grins, shows all his fangs.  
Nothings personal, he says.

  
And the Signless nods, slowly, backs away, slowly.  
He pulls his hood snugly over his head and makes for the forest, walking as quickly and gracefully as he can manage with his bloodpusher in his throat and a headache threatening.

 

The last of the torches are burning low, smoldering away as he slips into the cover of trees.  
Shaking from fear, from exhilaration, he replays the highblood’s threat in his head all the way back, wonders if the troll would even recognize him outside that field.  
He slows by the side of the river, catches glimpses of his hooded reflection, considers.

  
His message, the highblood had said.  
He has a message and a mission and a purpose that he thinks he can finally realize.  
Provided, of course, that his guardian doesn’t cull him for sneaking out before he gets the chance.  
.  
.  
.


End file.
